


doesn't matter what you say (i love you anyway)

by IAmNotLost



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Mechanic!Stiles, Pining, This was for torakodragon's art!, bionic!derek, i might make this into a longer thing?, not sure, or add some additional scenes?, proper credit in the notes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotLost/pseuds/IAmNotLost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Derek thinks it would be easier if he had just died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	doesn't matter what you say (i love you anyway)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TorakoDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TorakoDragon/gifts).



> Hello! This was based off of torakodragon's lovely art, http://torakodragon.tumblr.com/post/57102834801/i-need-an-au-where-derek-has-mechanical-robot
> 
> and it was sort of requested here too, so I uploaded it!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr, I like friends.  
> http://tinyfics.tumblr.com/

Sometimes, Derek thinks it would be easier if he had just died.

If he had just let the wolfsbane take affect, travel up his veins and kill him, even if it would have taken a while. If he had just sat there and accepted his fate instead of finding Deaton, instead of going to someone for help.

It probably would have been easier than having to relearn how to use his arms. Okay—it wasn’t _relearn,_ perhaps, because once his body realized that the metal and mechanics wasn’t a threat, it was relatively easy. Derek’s always had to control his strength, anyway, that was something he grew up perfecting.

It’s a little difficult to adjust to, though. He can feel things beneath his metal palms, but he can’t _feel_ them. Their warmth or their texture or their touch. He just knows they’re there. It’s hard to explain, but if Deaton enhanced them somehow, Derek’s not complaining.

The fact that Deaton could even _do_ this meant no complaining from Derek, ever. Except when he was alone, and wanted to wallow in his own misery. He was allowed to do whatever the hell he wanted, okay? 

There was no one around to stop him.

Well, Boyd, Erica, and Isaac still came around, obviously. They didn’t treat him any differently, which was a bigger relief than he let on. They gave him his space while he got used to his new arms, and then everything went back to normal for their little pack.

And by normal, Derek meant the shit storm that was their life.

 

 

"I’m fine." Is the first thing that comes out of Derek’s mouth when he gets back to the loft, cell phone pressed to his ear. Deaton’s on the other end, and neither of them are really paying attention to one another. Deaton’s yapping off about the fight the pack was just in, because _of course_ Isaac had to go and tell him. 

There were some electrical wires and a taser, and Derek found out that, while it hurt like a bitch to the rest of his body, it did his arms _wonders._

"Did you get all that, Derek?"

“Yes, it’s fine, whatever.” He’s _tired,_ limping a little bit still from the wires that wrapped around his thighs, has a few burn marks from them scattered over his body, probably for the next few hours, and he doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

Derek feels like he has a right to be a little shitty, given his situation.

"If you’re sure. Goodbye, Derek." What makes it even worse is that Deaton sounds so smug, like he knows Derek had been focusing on trying to walk normally rather than listen. It sounds like Derek missed something important, and he doesn’t really like the feeling. It can’t be too bad, though, or else Deaton wouldn’t have let it drop.

The cell phone hits his night stand a little harder than it should as he drops to his bed, but no one’s around to complain.

And it should be easier than this, falling asleep, but Derek almost feels like he’s thrumming with energy, thinks he can feel it snaking its way through his system and into his brain, wiring him awake.

It’s one of the worst nights Derek’s had in a while.

So when morning comes, and there’s the inevitable knock that, of course, means _Deaton,_ Derek’s cranky and annoying and a little grateful because something’s a little different with his arms.

Except when he opens the door, scowl on his face—it’s not Deaton.

It’s…It’s got to be the most anxious looking man Derek’s ever seen. He’s sort of jiggling in his spot enough to make Derek almost restless. His eyes, which Derek can’t get a good read on because they’re just as jittery as the man, are all over the place, barely stopping to take in Derek’s face and shoulders and then arms, and then the little window of view behind Derek, and—

"Who are you?" Derek should be more alert, because the most dangerous things can come in the most seemingly innocent packages, but something about this guy is…calm. Despite the fidgeting and constant hum of movement, there’s something there that soothes. It’s one of the weirder feelings Derek’s ever felt.

"Uh, Stiles?" The guy looks sort of flustered, now, fingers tapping out a rhythm too fast to actually be anything against his thighs. "Didn’t Deaton tell you about me? You know, he’s sort of away, for a little while, doing things I’d probably rather not know so I don’t even ask. And, um, he sent me? To check on your arms, see how everything’s going, sort of like what he does, except it’s…not him, it’s me. I’m his apprentice, don’t worry, totally not some hobo he picked off the street. Not that Deaton picks people up off the street. I mean, maybe he gives some money if he—sorry, not the time. I thought he was supposed to tell you. About me. Being here." 

Fuck, Derek’s never heard someone talk so much in a breath or two as much as Stiles does. He can hardly do anything but blink and take it all in, before Stiles is sort of slipping passed him and into the loft, looking around as if he’s never seen an _apartment_ before.

"Nice place." And it’s so startlingly simple compared to his previous monologue that Derek’s head is almost spinning, and he’s so _confused._

"Whoa, dude. Are you okay?" There’s skin pressing against his skin, so that means Stiles is touching his shoulders and his biceps, and he’s suddenly sitting down, head spinning a lot less than—huh. It _was_ spinning.

"Sorry, I probably should have started with ‘have you been feeling weird,’ because Deaton said something about a fight, and electricity. I swear I’m more professional than this, I’m just—” Stiles cuts himself off, and Derek sort of wants to ask _just what,_ but he doesn’t.

"I’m feeling fine. I don’t need your help." He gets out through clenched teeth, and Stiles sort of retreats into himself for a second before coming back out, snorting.

"And, what, I made you swoon?"

Derek growls, menacing and low, but Stiles doesn’t leave this time around, either. He goes around to the other side of the table, shifting the over-the-shoulder bag he had onto the floor and taking out—Derek wants to say a tool kit, but it looks a lot more high maintenance than that. But then, there’s nothing. Silence. Stiles is waiting for an explanation.

"There’s a lot of…energy. I couldn’t fall asleep last night, I felt too wired." Derek exhales heavily through his nose. "It’s…a lot."

"Oh!" Stiles’ eyes light up, and Derek can see the relief in warm amber eyes, probably relieved with the fact he knows something to help. Derek’s a little relieved, too.

"There’s probably too much juice in some of your wires. Like, you know, if you leave your phone charging too long, the battery gets really fat, spits out all of its energy, and then dies out quicker until it balances out." He opens the kit and pulls out a pair of glasses, first off, and—and Derek’s a little embarrassed with how his mouth dries out, taking in the man before him.

"I’m just going to tweak a few things, and you should be balanced out." Stiles continues, unaware of Derek’s internal struggles. 

"Are you sure you’re steady enough to work on me?" Derek raises a brow and pointedly looks at Stiles’ bouncing knee. It stops immediately, and there’s a healthy flush on Stiles’ cheeks when Derek looks back up.

"Yeah, I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry." 

It’s quiet after that. Calm, the calm that Stiles had given off when Derek opened the door. Stiles’ hands look steady, they’re not shaking, and he focuses pretty quickly. A tongue pokes out from between red, full lips, and—and fuck. _Fuck._

 

 

Deaton comes back four days later, enigmatic as ever.

Stiles keeps coming around.

 

 

It’s gotten to a point where Derek’s sort of lost control over the whole situation. Stiles visits, and visits, and _visits._ Brings pizza and movies and popcorn, brings his pack in for something _fun,_ brings light into his stupidly dark loft.

And now, now it’s two in the afternoon and Stiles is napping over the table at the loft, a book open beneath his folded arms. Glasses are lying dangerously close to the edge, so Derek gently, _gently,_ picks them up, moving them over to the center. 

Derek has control of his arms. He just needs to be mindful of things that break.

Stiles, for one, is a thing that can break. Derek can see it, see the bandages Stiles wears from something going wrong while he works, sees bruises and scrapes and a tiny scar at the side of his elbow. 

Stiles can break, but Derek wants to _touch._ Wants to know the texture of Stiles’ skin, and his hair. He runs a light touch through the sleeping man’s hair, carefully, but he doesn’t…he doesn’t _feel_ it. It’s so irritating. He wants to feel a pulse beneath his fingers, _wants_ his fingers, hasn’t been this irrationally upset about his arms in a long time. 

It isn’t hard to tell Derek’s in way over his head. Stiles is beautiful with his long fingers and lithe limbs, with his moles and fair complexion. He’s stupidly attractive, and his hair does this annoying thing where it flips up _like his nose,_ and it’s adorable. Derek’s never been so turned on by something so cute in his life.

But Derek can’t even touch, can’t even feel the buzz of excited skin beneath his fingers, would have to use his elbows or something weird, and that just—no. Everything about that is _no._

Derek doesn’t realize how upset he is until he notices the dent marks in the table his fingers are leaving.

"Derek?" 

Blearily, sleep-hazed eyes are blinking up at him, but Stiles doesn’t even look disoriented. He looks comfortable, content, like this is _okay._

It’s just making everything worse.

"Hey." Stiles tries to blink himself awake, almost as if noticing there was something up. "What’s wrong? And what time is it?"

"Nothing. And around 2. You should probably head back to Deaton."

Stiles skeptically looks at the finger-shaped marks in the table but says nothing, and his skin is sleep flushed, and Derek wants to _taste._

"Today’s my day off." Stiles stretches, back arching against the chair, and none of this is actually fair. At all.

"Why are you here, then?" Derek wants to swallow back his words at the look of hurt that flashes across Stiles’ face. Stiles was good at hiding his hurt, Derek knew, was good at schooling his features into grins and laughs and snarkiness.

But he’s vulnerable and sleepy and Derek is the worst person in the fucking world.

"Because I like spending time with you?" It comes out hesitant, Stiles cautiously placing a palm over the back of Derek’s hand. Derek’s mechanical hand. His not even fucking _hand_ because it’s useless when it comes to senses, and all he wants right now is to _feel_ the drag of fingertips. Derek pulls away like he’s been burnt.

"Derek." His name falls from Stiles’ lips almost as if he can’t help himself, and it’s surprised and sad and confused and it hurts _Derek_ to hear it.

"What’s gotten into you?" The fact that Stiles isn’t even angry right now is what wrecks Derek.

"I can’t _feel_ it. When you touch my arms. And you’re always touching them, and it’s _infuriating,_ Stiles. I can’t feel your fingers when our hands are stuck in those popcorn bags. I know your hair is soft but I can’t feel it slide through my fingers. Can’t—and you brush over my hands when you’re done working, and I can’t feel it. I want to feel it.”

Derek’s chest is heaving, just a little bit, and the expression on Stiles’ face is unreadable before he stands. He’s too close in Derek’s space because Derek hadn’t backed away from the table, and he doesn’t plan on it. 

"You could have said something. I was trying to…trying to let you know. That I didn’t mind your arms. You…always look self conscious about them. And I don’t mind. I like them. You. All of you." There’s fingertips on his arm that don’t do anything, but they reach his elbow and Derek swallows audibly. Stiles’ fingertips are a little callused, but they feel _good_ dragging up his biceps, to his shoulders. 

Stiles’ heartbeat is going at a mile a minute, and his face is flushed, and Derek’s senses feel overloaded, because he’s not used to people touching skin. Stiles doesn’t mind his arms. Doesn’t care that Derek’s arms are kind of cold or that he can’t really do much baking.

Derek doesn’t know who makes the first move, but suddenly they’re kissing, Stiles’ fingers fisted in the sides of Derek’s tank top. He, surprisingly, doesn’t kiss like he talks. Stiles kisses like he works. He takes his time and coaxes, sweet and hard and a little bit desperate. Derek hooks his arms around Stiles’ back, and he can’t feel much, but there’s skin-warmed cotton brushing against his elbows, and it’s not so bad.

There’s a little bit of almost lukewarm sunlight streaming in through the window, and it’s probably the best first kiss with someone he’s ever had, because it’s _Stiles._ Stiles, whose breath hitches when Derek licks into his mouth, who exhales a breathy laugh when Derek nuzzles his way over Stiles’ nose and cheeks and jaw, who makes a delicious sort of sound when Derek sucks a bruise onto his neck. 

It’s not perfect, because Stiles gets prickly stubble burn and his neck is going to be bruised for days, which is perfect for Derek but Deaton’s going to give Stiles the _'stink eye, dammit Derek.'_

It’s not perfect, but it’s _something._

 

 

"Are you sure?"

2 in the afternoon turned into 8 at night, groaning on the couch because of stomachs too-full of Thai takeout. 

"Sure about what, this?"

Derek doesn’t want to answer, but he nods his head, staring firmly at the TV, which Stiles has no problems with turning off. Jerk.

"I’m surprised you even like _me,_ okay? With all of my…strange personality habits, and the fact that you’re literally the wet dream of some sexy robot film enthusiast and I’m—not? At all? Not even anywhere near how good looking you are? And I’m sort of _boring,_ you know, I’m—”

"Stop it." Derek huffs, and he’s hovering over Stiles, mechanical palms pressed into the couch by Stiles’ head. "You’re perfect. From your nose to your eyes to your moles to your hair to your lips, to your hands. You’re funny. I…I like you. So stop it."

There’s laughter bubbling from Stiles’ throat, his cheeks flushed bright red, and Derek drags his lips over them. Stiles takes Derek’s face into his palms and presses their foreheads together, and when he kisses him this time it’s more teeth-clacking through smile than anything else, but it’s good.

It’s always good with Stiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how to expand this? but I do want to write a few more scenes. Possibly?


End file.
